‘Is Ed here too?’ Pamela peered over his shoulder as if expecting his cousin to pop out of nowhere.
‘Er… I think he stayed at Ashley House, didn't he? To do some revision for his A levels.’
‘Of course he did. Silly Granny. I say, darling, would you mind giving me a little hand down the stairs? I'm feeling just the slightest bit dizzy and would so hate to fall and cause a fuss.’
Roland had led her to the high-backed chair and then gone back upstairs. She had stayed where she was, doing her best to seem happy and self-contained when she didn't feel either. ‘Were they good games, dear?’ she murmured, having glanced up and seen her grandson once more hovering nearby.
‘Great,’ Roland assured her, although his grandmother wouldn't have thought too highly of Lara Croft's plunging cleavage and the improbable arsenal of weaponry that had enabled her to save the world. He was still pondering the matter when Pamela gripped his wrist. ‘What's that noise, dear? Do you hear it?’
‘Uh – it's my phone, Gran. Excuse me a minute, I've got a text.’ Roland pulled his mobile out of his pocket and studied the screen. ‘In pub. Pls warn when M & D on way home. Cheers, Ed.’
‘Someone nice?’ inquired Pamela, whose own mobile had yet to be removed from the box in which Peter and Helen had presented it to her two Christmases before. ‘Really,’ she added, on a lovely burst of confidence, ‘so many phones these days – I don't know what you all find to talk about.’ At which point Serena, poised and elegant in a grey chiffon dress that made the few threads of silver in her chestnut hair shine like silk, tapped her mother-in-law's shoulder and said it was time they went home.
‘On way now,’ typed Roland, keeping the screen tipped away from his aunt, only to find his mother accosting him from the other side.
‘Roland, really! Put that thing away.’
‘Are we going too?’ he asked hopefully, slipping the mobile into his pocket.
‘Not quite.’ Elizabeth smiled in a way that meant she had drunk enough to start enjoying herself.
‘We could drop Roland back if he's had enough,’ offered Serena, unable to resist patting her nephew's glossy dark hair, and feeling a swoop of motherly concern at the thought of her darling Ed poring over his history files at the kitchen table. ‘I don't know why we didn't all come in one car – silly, really.’
‘No, thanks. I'll stay with Mum,’ replied Roland, grandly, putting an arm round Elizabeth's shoulders. ‘Honestly, I'd like to stay… to, er, talk to Aunt Cass a bit. She is my godmother, after all.’ He shifted from one foot to the other, torn between meeting his mother's gaze of gratitude and the darker expression on the face of his aunt.
‘Do you think she enjoyed it?’ Serena whispered, glancing over her shoulder at Pamela, who had fallen asleep, the tartan car blanket tucked under her chin. In the dim light the old dear's face, dusted still with a few traces of makeup – pink lipstick, a kiss of lilac eye-shadow – looked as delicate and pale as that of a china doll.
‘Hard to tell, but I think so.’ Charlie yawned widely and opened the window. The night air, icy even for March, hit his face like a cold shower.
‘God, that's freezing! Do you have to?’
‘Sorry, darling, I'm bushed.’ Charlie began to wind it up but Serena reached across to stop him.
‘Leave it open. I'll just turn the heating up a little.’
Charlie left the window open a crack and slowed his speed, in spite of the inviting black ribbon of the A3 under the beam of the headlights. Alone, he would have driven fast in spite of his fatigue but Serena, he knew, was now alert to the possibility of him falling asleep at the wheel. He could feel the fear pulsing out of her, drawing him in. It was six years since Tina had been run over. They had coped – moved on – but it had changed them, introduced moments, like this, when anxiety at the prospect of misfortune bulged out of all proportion and shadows of pain flitted between them.
‘Good party, eh?’ he said. ‘I must say, Stephen grows on me. I wasn't sure, at first, about him and Cassie – different back-grounds and so on – but they really seem good together, don't you think? And he's done bloody well with those books of his.’
Serena, relaxing as he had intended, kicked off her shoes and flexed her toes in the warm blasts of heat circulating round their feet. ‘I've always liked Stephen… and he's devoted to Cassie, which, at the end of the day, is all that matters, isn't it? They've settled on a date by the way – the fourteenth of January – which I said was fine.’
‘They're mad. Whoever heard of a January wedding? What's wrong with the summer?’
‘Apparently Stephen has a book deadline and Cassie says it will give them enough time to prepare. You know your little sister, she'll want synchronized colour schemes, hand-made dresses and food too beautiful to eat. She's praying for snow too, she said.’
‘Snow?’
‘You've got to admit it would look nice – St Margaret's steeple and all the gravestones crusted in white, holly berries and snow drifts –’
‘Black ice and breakdown vehicles.’
Serena giggled. ‘Spoilsport. Anyway, the rest of the year's going to be busy enough, what with Italy and Ed's eighteenth.’
Charlie groaned. ‘Oh, God, I'd forgotten that ordeal. Can't we persuade him to have a twenty-first – put it off for three years?’
‘The girls had an eighteenth.’
Charlie sighed and wound up the window. ‘At least it's after his exams. Once they're out of the way we might all feel like a party.’
‘He's working hard.’
‘Is he now?’ Charlie eyed his wife doubtfully, envying her faith in their easy-going seventeen-year-old. Returning his attention to the road, he found himself wishing, for by no means the first time during the last six years, that they had gone on to have another child. He had wanted to, very badly, but Serena had declared that Tina couldn't be ‘replaced’, that it would be wrong even to try. And now she was forty-nine, like him, which was definitely on the ancient side to become parents again, although, as he liked to remind her, Helen had been forty-eight when Genevieve was born, with nothing but joy all round.
Aside from whatever emotional gap a new baby might have filled, Charlie worried about the simple fact that, with the girls no longer at home and Ed almost through school, his wife did not have enough to do. The move to Ashley House had been a useful diversion and, during their first year, she had channelled her considerable artistic talents into a wheel and kiln she had set up in one of the outhouses. She would start her own cottage industry, she had said. But for months now all her little pots and vases had been gathering dust on shelves that were home to spiders, beetles and fieldmice, seeking warm bolt-holes during the winter. ‘Had quite a chat with that friend of Stephen's,’ he ventured now, as an idea took shape that he realized might solve several niggling problems simultaneously. ‘Keith Holmes – nice bloke, rough round the edges, but a good heart. A builder apparently, said he was between jobs.’
‘Oh, yes?’
‘I just thought a man like that might be just the sort of Sid substitute we've been looking for. There would be loads he could do, including fixing up that draughty box you call a studio – put in some heating, make it really comfy. We could give him that as a first project, try him out.’
‘Maybe.’ They were off the motorway now, in the thicker darkness of the countryside. Specks of rain were flecking the window, running races with each other as they slid down the glass. Her husband still worried about her, Serena knew. And that was good, she told herself. ‘Speak to him, if you like,’ she murmured, ‘though I'm never firing Sid – even if he turns up in a wheelchair, the darling. Such a part of the landscape. Pamela adores him, and he can still manage the lawn-mower and the shears.’
‘Of course we won't fire Sid. As you say, he's part of the landscape… Hey, what's up?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Yes, there is.’
Serena let out a heavy sigh. ‘I was just thinking of Roland, how p
rotective he is of Elizabeth. It's not right. He asked me tonight if I had any ideas as to what he could do for her birthday, which is weeks and weeks away. Could you imagine Ed asking that? Or one of the girls, for that matter?’
Charlie chuckled. ‘I could, actually. Anyway, did you have any ideas?’
‘I told him we'd sort something out – a surprise get-together of the family. Was that okay?’
‘Of course.’
‘It falls on the first Saturday in May, which should be easy. I've already told Cassie and Peter. They've promised to keep it free – make a weekend of it.’
‘Clever girl.’
‘If only things had worked out between Elizabeth and Lucien. I was so sure they would.’
‘If only a lot of things, eh?’ said Charlie, softly, swinging the car into the lane leading to Ashley House, where the trees arched like the vaulted ceiling of a dark cathedral and the pot-holes were so deep and broad he had to slow to a crawl to negotiate them.
As the car swayed Pamela woke. She had been dreaming of God and of John, a tangled dream of torn loyalties. Not knowing for a moment where she was, she patted with small frantic movements at the space around her, feeling the cold door on one side, the empty space on the other, the roughness of the blanket over her and the wetness on her chin where she had dribbled in her sleep. ‘I've been asleep,’ she called, her voice high with alarm.
‘It's okay, Mum, we're home now,’ came a voice she knew was Charlie's, dear Charlie. And there, indeed, was home, her beloved Ashley House, a huge, comforting bulk in the darkness, its downstairs lights blazing and the spectral army of silver birches whispering to their left as the car rolled the last few yards up the drive.
Lying in bed that night, Cassie stroked her palms across her tummy. Closing her eyes, she pressed gently with her finger tips, trying to feel beyond the warmth of her skin to her sense of something else inside. Another life. A pencil-dot quivering in her womb. Serena had told her once that she had known with all her children the instant they had been conceived. Her body had felt different, she said, softer, more tender, ripe. Cassie spread her fingers wider and pressed a little harder. She did feel different excited but also serene. And her breasts were tingling – that, too, was a sure sign. ‘All good things come to those who wait,’ she quoted in her mind. It had been a once annoying adage of her recently deceased aunt. And she had waited, for years not wanting children particularly, and then, with Dan, longing for them until his wife, Sally, had become ill and the possibility of him abandoning his marriage had shrunk like a tired dream. With Stephen she had waited again – although she had been almost forty when they had finally started going out together – partly because she had wanted to be sure of her feelings for him and partly because of his own troubled reluctance. With parents like his, she would have been reluctant too.
Turning her head but keeping her hands on her belly, she studied Stephen's profile in the dark, thinking how good things in life might come with waiting but how they could also be unexpected too, like her feelings for Stephen transmuting slowly, steadily into love. Dan had let her down but Stephen had proved constant, adoring her resistant, broken heart until it melted and adored him back. He worried, he said, that parenthood might change them, that it would force him to share her with someone else when he didn't want to share her with any-thing or anyone ever. Recalling the sentiment, moved afresh by its sweetness, Cassie reached out and stroked the sandpapery roughness of her fiancé's cheek. She had talked him round, of course, as she had always known she would, explaining the yearning, the hunger, gnawing inside and citing her lovely bunch of nephews and nieces as examples of how great children could be. Her secret favourite was Roland, perhaps because he was her godson, but Stephen had developed a soft spot for Helen and Peter's little Genevieve, with her auburn curls and freckles, spoilt rotten but endearing all the same. It was after a stay at Ashley House the previous year, when this particular niece had spent many of her waking hours clambering on and off Stephen's lap, that he had pronounced himself ready to try for a family, regardless of which month they settled on for their wedding.
Since then there had been no stopping them. They made love almost every day, whenever the mood took them, between unpacked boxes, among paint pots and once, somewhat uncomfortably, on the kitchen table, which had left Cassie's lower spine bruised and aching for days. After two decades of assiduous precautions not to get pregnant it was nothing short of liberation to focus on the act of conception as her primary aim. It added a new dimension to the pleasure, Cassie had discovered, that felt at once erotic and curiously virtuous. Pulling Stephen into her in recent weeks, she felt as if no penetration could be too deep or too furious, that every electrically charged fusion of their sweat and flesh – focused as it now was on the momentous miracle of conception – was somehow blessed.
Turning again to study Stephen's face, Cassie experienced a surge of motherly protection. He didn't always drift off easily. Even now, she could see his eyes rolling under the soft milky-white eyelids, as if he were seeking a way out of the dark, or watching the unknowable slideshow of his dreams. His broad mouth with its beautiful Cupid's bow and curling corners – a mouth born to smile, she had always thought, even before she fell in love with him – trembled with each breath. In the half-dark, with his wavy hair splayed against the pillow, showing none of the grey smudges creeping into the sideboards, he looked younger than thirty-seven. ‘I'll be a menopausal crone just as you hit your stride in your early forties,’ she had joked recently, ‘and then you'll start fancying the socks off nubile creatures with no smile-lines and firmer breasts.’ Instead of laughing as she had intended, he had exploded with hurt that she could suggest such a thing, and protested his love with a vehemence that had made Cassie, with her knowledge of having loved before, almost afraid.
She was concentrating again on her belly, certain now that it felt strangely tight, when she heard the squeak of the front gate followed by the crunch of footsteps on the little path that led up to the front door. She eased herself out of bed, then peered through the window, half wrapping herself in the curtains for warmth.
Stephen sat up and rubbed his eyes. ‘Hey, babe, what are you doing?’
‘I heard something,’ she whispered. ‘Someone outside.’ As she spoke the doorbell rang.
‘Bloody hell! Who is it? Can you see?’
Hugging herself and dancing with cold, Cassie shook her head. ‘It's raining and dark.’
‘I'll go. You stay here.’
‘No, I'm coming too. If you're going to be shot we might as well go down together.’
‘Mad woman,’ he whispered, pulling on his dressing-gown and throwing hers across the bed. ‘Come on, then. It's probably kids playing a prank. Keith and I used to do it all the time.’
Which was why Cassie laughed when Stephen – with her peeping over his shoulder – opened the door to reveal Keith, hair standing up in wet spikes and rainwater dripping off his coat.
‘Sorry, mate. Cassie, hi, sorry about this.’ He shot several glances over his shoulder, clearly contemplating the possibility of retreat.
‘Come in,’ said Cassie at once, pulling her dressing-gown more tightly across her chest. ‘You're soaked.’
‘The thing is…’ Keith stepped into the hall, shaking himself like a wet dog ‘… I've run into a bit of a hitch on the accommodation front. I'm sorry, Steve, I didn't know where else to turn.’
‘You want to stay?’
‘Just for the night,’ said Keith. ‘On the sofa. Won't be any trouble, I promise.’
‘Poor you. Has something terrible happened?’ said Cassie, feeling the need to make up for the undisguised flatness of Stephen's response. She stepped forward to help their visitor with his sodden coat, then carried it at arm's length to one of the spare hooks under the stairs.
Keith grinned sheepishly. ‘Nah, not really. Just lost my keys, and this friend I'm living with has gone away for the weekend.’
‘One night will be
fine,’ said Stephen, sounding a little more amenable. ‘No need for the sofa, though. You can have the spare room.’
‘Poor old Keith,’ murmured Cassie, once they were back in bed, ‘losing his keys like that.’
Stephen snorted. ‘Keys, my arse. He's been kicked out by some woman, I expect.’
‘I thought he had a wife.’
‘He did, but it fell apart a few years ago. I get the impression his whole life is a bit of a mess, but he doesn't want to talk about it.’
‘Typical man,’ Cassie murmured, snuggling closer and rubbing her frozen toes up and down Stephen's warm calves.
‘I don't mind helping him, but we're not running a charity, okay?’
‘Okay. He's your friend, darling – whatever you say.’ She pressed her nose, which was also cold, into the crook of his neck.
‘Hey, you're an ice-box.’
‘Mm. Warm me up, then,’ she whispered, shifting herself on top of him. ‘But gently, gently…’ She leant forwards and planted kisses on his ears, letting her hair trail across his face. ‘We don't want to disturb whatever might already be inside.’
Or Keith, thought Stephen, but not saying so because it was hardly a romantic or helpful notion, given the circumstances. He nuzzled her hair instead, wishing he could erase the small, persistent squeak of their bed and the unsettling image of his friend lying in the next room listening to it.
Scrolling through emails the next morning, perched at the little roll-top desk she had been allowed to bring with her to London, Clem wondered if she should have made the effort to go to her aunt's party after all. Her mother, usually reluctant to make electronic contact, had written to her twice about it.
Ed, poor love, is snowed under with revision, but Elizabeth says Roland's going. It would be nice just to see you, darling. With Maisie in Mexico, Dad and I are feeling quite bereft! Call us soon, won't you? Sometimes it feels as if you're as far away as your sister! All love, Mum
The Simple Rules of Love Page 7
